


Slowly, Silently

by HelldiverOfLykos



Series: Love And Loss [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But I'm still gonna apologize, Drug Use, Grieving Sherlock, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Morphine, Sherlock falls apart, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, actually i'm not sorry at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelldiverOfLykos/pseuds/HelldiverOfLykos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John gone, there was nothing left. He just wanted to fade into another realm and find the love he had lost...</p><p>Sequel to Gone Too Soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly, Silently

**Author's Note:**

> More angst. Again. I was rereading my fics just for the hell of it and I had a very good/bad idea...
> 
> Trigger warnings: There will be mentions of **drugs, drug use, suicidal thoughts, and suicide.** And if you've read the tags, you can guess where this is going to go, so if you don't feel comfortable with these topics, this fic isn't for you.

Bang.

Sherlock bolted upright, gasping for air. Sweat dipped from his dark curls and tracked down his face.

_It's just a dream, it's a dream, it's a dream..._

Sherlock exhaled shakily and buried his face in his hands. The dreams just kept getting worse. They had started off with just the scene replaying over and over in his head. John getting shot, John bleeding out on the asphalt, John kissing him one last time, John dying in his arms...

How they possibly get any worse? Well, as time passed, they would begin with a happy memory of him and John, running through the streets of London, high on the adrenalin of the chase, perhaps, or sprawled on Sherlock's bed, hands roaming over each other as they gasped promises of love and _"Sherlock"s_ and _"John"s_ into heated kisses. Suddenly, a gunshot would ring in his ears and John would bleed to death in his arms all over again.

Sherlock didn't sleep much as it was, and with nightmares plaguing the few hours of rest he managed to steal, his condition began to slip downhill. It had been incredibly traumatic to watch the only person he had ever truly loved die right in front of him, and the snarling demons lurking in the corners of his mind only made it worse. They whispered about _how he could have saved John if he had pulled the trigger earlier, how he could have solved the case faster so that the chase would never have happened, how he could have done a better job of protecting John._

He was completely silent for the week leading up to the funeral. He refused to leave the flat, he refused to eat, he refused to sleep. On the day of the funeral itself, he had been as stony as he had always been. People had murmured condolences and _"I'm so sorry"s_ to him, but he had shown no reaction. When everyone had left, he had placed a silver ring on the grave and left without shedding a single tear.

He had broken down a month later, when the nightmares had woken him up for the fourth time since John left.

A fresh smattering of pockmarks had appeared on his forearms by the fifth week since John left. Morphine. Sometimes heroin, but usually morphine. Occasionally, he would come home reeking of opium, but those instances were rare.

By the fifth month, the Sherlock that lived in 221B Baker Street was a shadow of the brilliant, amazing, fantastic consulting detective that had taken the internet by storm. He was paler than he had ever been, his face almost skeletal with the skin drawn tightly over those ridiculously sharp cheekbones ~~that John had loved (and hated) so much~~. He looked like a ghost. A ghost of the man John Hamish Watson had loved.

***

_Six months since John_

 

Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter around his thin frame as the wind whipped around him. He hadn't come down this path for a long time. Six months, in fact.

He stopped in front of a smooth, black gravestone with golden letters carved into it.

_John Hamish Watson_

_Gold. Just like the color of his hair in the morning light. Like the color of his skin in the summer sunlight. Like the flecks in his irises that nobody ever noticed._

He hadn't visited the grave at all since the funeral. He had been too weak. He hadn't wanted to let the gaping cracks in his heart show.

"I'm sorry, John." The first words he had spoken in months.

The ring was where he had left it, nestled in the grass. He picked it up and brushed the dirt off it. He hadn't gotten the chance to give it to John.

It didn't matter now. He was going to see him soon.

Sherlock extracted a syringe from his coat pocket.

_Morphine. Named after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams._

His third dose today. He was already feeling quite groggy as it was. One final injection should do it.

Sherlock pressed the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger.

The world blurred a little more. He lowered himself to the ground and propped himself against the gravestone. The coldness seeping into his limbs should have scared him, but instead, it murmured promises of gold-silver hair, blue eyes, and smiles that made his world stop.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Sherlock's lungs burned and black started to appear at the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes.

"Soon, John," he whispered.

_Soon._

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

A warm, calloused hand caressed his cheek. He opened his eyes a crack.

_John._

"Shhh, love, I've got you." Strong arms encircled his thin shoulders and soft lips brushed against Sherlock's temple.

"M'coming. S'nn..." Sherlock slurred.

"I know. I know. I'm here. Don't worry, love, just let it come."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the silver ring as best as he could.

"L've you, John."

"I love you, too. It's time to let go, love. I'm waiting for you."

He let his eyes fall shut. And he slipped away. Slowly, silently into the arms of Morpheus.

***

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Warm, familiar fingers tightened around his hand.

"Good norning, gorgeous."

Soft light enveloped the face smiling down at him. He could just make out silvery-blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes.

"John?"

"You made it, love."

Sherlock sat up on the bed he had been lying on. John was sitting next to him with his legs tangled in the sheets. Bright morning light filled the room, giving it an ethereal glow.

Sherlock reached out slowly and touched John's face. John placed his hand over Sherlock's and guided it in a long, slow caress over his cheek.

"Am I dreaming? I've dreamed of mornings like this too many times. They all ended like a nightmare would."

Sadness clouded John's eyes.

"Oh, love."

John slid his hands into Sherlock's curls and slotted their lips together. Warmth spread throughout his body. He had almost forgotten how it felt when John kissed him.

When they finally, _finally_ broke apart, Sherlock's cheeks were damp with tears. John thumbed away the teardrops and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"It's ok now. I'm here. Don't cry."

"I missed you so much."

"I know, love. I missed you, too."

"I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry.
> 
> I'm [willasherlyscottholmes](http://www.willasherlyscottholmes.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to send death threats.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and the occasional "fuck you" are always welcome!


End file.
